


A catch for the chasing, a jewel for the choosing

by uumuu



Series: Our Heaven [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse of the word 'brother', Alternate Universe, F/M, Forge Sex, M/M, Male Elemmírë, Multi, Promiscuous Fëanor, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Voyeur Fingolfin, Voyeurism, With a cameo by Curufin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin accidentally sees something he shouldn't have, watches intentionally, and gets more than he bargained for in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A catch for the chasing, a jewel for the choosing

Ñolofinwë could, in all honesty, say that the first time had been an accident. An entirely unlooked-for circumstance. He had been intending to take a short swim before dinner one bland evening, but upon entering the baths set aside for the royal family, they were there, having sex near one of the pools.

The soft light of the lamps hanging from the ceiling by means of nearly invisible chains glittered on the water, and licked their wet skin. Their eyes were fixed on the other's. The love and fervour in Fëanáro's own were impossible to overlook. Nerdanel smiled down at him, her hands stroking his chest. Her taut body strained and flexed as in a dance as she rolled her hips and ground down on her husband's cock at her leisure. 

She was the very incarnation of effortless beauty, and Ñolofinwë found himself thinking that the people who claimed she was unattractive were probably simply envious of her talent, and of her confidence. 

He quickly retreated. It would have been indecorous to watch his half-brother and sister-in-law make love. They ought to have been more careful, true, but Ñolofinwë couldn't really fault them for indulging. He too had sometimes given in to temptation and had sex with Anairë in the baths when he thought they wouldn't be disturbed. The relaxing, cosy atmosphere of the place lent itself easily to sweet intimacy.

Less excusable was that he kept replaying the scene in his mind. Watching Fëanáro have sex brought to light a desire which had always, he knew, been latent in him, and which stemmed from a fascination for his half-brother he could hide and repress, but never disavow or erase. Sometimes he wondered whether he would have felt the same, if he could have simply said 'brother' instead of half-brother; most of those times he was convinced it wouldn't have made much difference, and the thought was both scary and comforting.

He managed to bridle that desire, and it hushed for a while longer.

*

The second time was therefore fortuitous too. 

He was furious. Every time he thought his half-brother had surpassed all limits, that he couldn't possibly find new ways to provoke him, Fëanáro would do something to prove him wrong, and so he marched to his house, where a sullen servant grudgingly directed him to the forge after much insistence on his part (even Fëanáro's servants disrespected him). 

When he approached the low building tuck in a corner of the garden at the back of the house, the sounds he heard were not those of smithing. They weren't the sounds of gentle lovemaking either, and later Ñolofinwë would repeat to himself that he looked simply because they had made him suspicious, and that he watched because when he peeked from one of the windows it looked like what was transpiring in the forge might be a coerced act. 

Fëanáro slammed into one of his apprentices (Ñolofinwë didn't know his name), the tenderness with which he had made love to his wife gone. The young man was doubled over a workbench, and Fëanáro pulled on his hair with his left hand, whereas the right was clasped around his neck, making it difficult for him to breathe.

It looked definitely vicious, but the thought of stepping in didn't even cross Ñolofinwë's mind. 

The angle at which he stood made it easy for him to see his half-brother's cock slide between the young man's asscheeks and inside his ass, how Fëanáro delivered thrust after vigorous thrust. 

He watched, as if rapt. He watched, transfixed, until Fëanáro stopped, and his honourable justification evaporated.

“Move,” the youth bid, with short breath but brazenly demanding, leaving no doubt as to whether he consented to and enjoyed the act. 

“Do it yourself,” Fëanáro retorted, pulling harder on his hair.

The young man made a sound halfway between a growl and a squeak, and tried to push his hips back to fuck himself on his master's cock. Ñolofinwë noticed that he was trembling, very likely from both the pleasure and the position, and that despite his efforts he couldn't get much done.

Fëanáro noticed too, but the young man's struggle brought a smile on his lips, and he savoured it before rewarding it.

“Good boy” he whispered in his ear, bending down to nibble on the tip of it as he resumed thrusting. His right hand glided up the young man's chin, and two of his fingers slipped inside his mouth. The young man hungrily sucked on them and moaned around them, losing himself in the pleasure again.

It was then that Ñolofinwë left, his complaint forgotten.

It was getting too much. 

Walking back to his own house was an arduous trek, with the heat thudding in his groin and the images swarming his mind.

Later, much as he told himself that he had watched out of genuine and justified concern, he exploited the memory for his self-gratification. 

He dreamt of being the one pounding in Fëanáro's ass, to grip his hips so hard as to leave a mark on them, to undo him with the strain of his body. Even oftener, he fantasised about being the one at the mercy of whatever his half-brother wanted to deal to him, subject to the caresses of his rough hands. His orgasm then was so violent his pillow was barely enough to muffle his scream as he came in his hand.

*

The third time wasn't a coincidence any longer. 

Ñolofinwë's outward attitude towards his half-brother didn't change, but there was more to his watchfulness than the need to guard himself against Fëanáro's slights. He started gauging his interactions more attentively, all the while remaining especially cautious, and thus it became easy for him to tell who Fëanáro had affairs with, and to guess when he would encounter his many lovers. Each of those encounters was a sting to his spirit, mud thrown over his helpless yearning. It would have been preferable to believe that Fëanáro was incapable of love than to know he could bestow it so liberally to so many people (and it hardly mattered if it was superficial) – but not to him, never to him who hungered so violently for it that he at last gave in and decided to misappropriate it, if he could not have it. 

The occasion soon presented itself. Perfect time and perfect location. 

Ñolofinwë snuck towards the panoramic veranda late in the night, across the dark, empty garden, and hid behind a tree. 

The veranda was built on a terrace perched on the precipitous drop which marked Túna's highest point. The view from it extended over the hills down between the facing slopes of the Calacirya and on to the sea.

Its layout made it easy for Ñolofinwë to pry.

Fëanáro lay naked on a divan in the middle of the lanai, legs spread wide, open and entrusted to Rúmil's caresses. His abandon and Rúmil's attentiveness belied a long-standing, cosy relationship.

Ñolofinwë had no justification to cling on to, and would have refused one. His right hand immediately went to his crotch, and freed his turgid cock. His fingers started working on the head, and he pictured himself in Rúmil's position, knelt between those powerful legs. He tried to imagine how it would feel to be encased in that body, and have Fëanáro look up at him with something too close to adoration on his cruelly beautiful face. To bend down and nip his nipples, and have his hands brush down his own back to fondle his ass. 

Ñolofinwë breathed heavily through his nose and leant his full weight on the tree. His left shoulder soon began to ache, but he ignored it. His hand worked faster on his cock. The sight, as well as the sounds – their hoarse breathing and the wet slapping sound of Rúmil's thrusts – soon brought him to meagre completion, a completion which made him feel even emptier than before. He stayed until they came too, and witnessed his half-brother's sweet bliss in the hands of another.

*

The fourth time came as a surprise. 

“You can't touch him!” Ñolofinwë heard, just as he was about to turn into the corridor that led to his half-brother's rooms. 

He peered around the corner and saw Aicanáro glaring seethingly at Fëanáro.

“You aren't his guardian, and you are in no position to decide who he sleeps with,” the latter unimpressedly objected. 

“He's -!” Aicanáro spat back through clenched teeth, and Ñolofinwë couldn't grasp the last word.

“He still doesn't have to answer to you about his intimate life.” Fëanáro was uncharacteristically calm, even blithe, though probably only because it was apparent it galled Aicanáro. “Or are you perhaps jealous? Perhaps you want to fuck me too.”

“As if -”

Fëanáro's hand darted between his nephew's leg, instantly hushing him, and fondled the bulge there. “As if,” he repeated. “It seems I turn you on. Or perhaps it turns you on to think of your -”

Aicanáro didn't let Fëanáro finish. He hit him with a slap that had been meant to be a punch, but miscarried given the position, and his excitement.

Fëanáro's eyes blazed and his lips twisted in a grimace of rage. 

Ñolofinwë nearly darted into the corridor, afraid that he might harm their nephew.

It would have been unwarranted, because Fëanáro's head snapped to face Aicanáro again and he savagely kissed him on the lips – it was more a sequence of bites than a proper kiss - but Aicanáro stood up to it and rode the stimulation on his cock at the same time.

The fierce kiss continued until the younger elf's breath quickened and he laid his hands on his uncle's shoulders for support, coming with a brash grunt.

Fëanáro held him as his spent body sagged.

“Ñolvo! What are you doing there?” Arafinwë's smooth voice sounded behind Ñolofinwë in the very same instant. The older elf started and stiffly turned to his younger brother. “Is something amiss?”

“No, no,” Ñolofinwë anxiously answered.

“Are you sure? You're flushed.”

“It's nothing, just- just the...heat, in here.”

Arafinwë blinked in confusion, evidently unconvinced by the reply. “Were you looking for Curufinwë?”

Ñolofinwë cringed at the name – Arafinwë tended to use it in preference to Fëanáro to underline their brotherhood, however futile an attempt it was. He leant towards the corridor, trying to perceive any sounds, hoping that Fëanáro and Aicanáro had left.

“Is something going on up there?”

“No,” Ñolofinwë denied curtly, gripping Arafinwë's arms as he made to glance into the corridor. The last thing he wanted was for him to see the brother that snubbed them cuddle his son after bringing him to orgasm. “I-...yes, I wanted to talk to Fëanáro, but it is not the time now.”

“Why not?” Arafinwë asked, looking perplexedly at the hands blocking his arms. Ñolofinwë let them go. “I saw him go to his rooms, I wanted to talk to him too. Shall we go together?”

“I-...”

“Ñolvo, has something happened to you? I've never seen you so flustered before.”

Ñolofinwë cursed inwardly (both himself and his half-brother).

“No, no. I think I might be a little bit too tired. I will be happy if you come with me. It's for father's begetting day, right?”

Arafinwë nodded, relieved. Ñolofinwë forced himself to smile. He couldn't let Fëanáro (or rather, his own attraction to him) affect him so much. It was making him lose himself. He had a wife, children, and siblings who loved him. It was ridiculous to pine for one who had never had more than aloof courtesy for him. 

*

Even with that awareness, Ñolofinwë couldn't stop, no matter how extensively he tried to reason with himself. By the fifth time, he was used (addicted) to seeing his half-brother have sex, though his choice and variety of partners still baffled him. 

He certainly wouldn't have expected him to have an assignation with one of the members of the Vanyarin delegation sent to Tirion to honour Finwë's begetting day. 

Elemmírë's golden head sunk between Fëanáro's thighs, parted wide where he lounged against the back of the sofa in the foyer to his own wing of the palace. He let the Vanya set the pace. Elemmírë didn't hold back, taking his cock down his gullet and working his mouth and throat around it, straightening only when the need to breathe freely became impelling.

Fëanáro sighed, lovingly brushing the top of his head. “It's been too long since we've last done this.”

Elemmírë's right hand wrapped around the shaft as it slipped from his mouth. “We could do it more frequently, and leisurely, if you weren't such a snot and came to Valmar from time to time.”

“It's too loud,” Fëanáro protested, and Ñolofinwë marveled at how he sounded almost childishly whiny. “I don't know how you can stand all the bells.”

“You wouldn't even hear them,” Elemmírë purred, and flicked his tongue over the slit, licking away the precome that had oozed there. Fëanáro hissed and lightly bucked his hips. “We would have my house all to ourselves.”

“I might think about it.” Fëanáro's fingers disappeared in Elemmírë's hair and pushed his head back down.

Ñolofinwë looked on, but couldn't touch himself, though he ached to. He knew Fëanáro's children and wife were out, but the foyer was a space open to everybody (it was just like his half-brother to ignore the risk). 

He was immersed in his contemplation – watching Elemmírë's mouth slide over the length of his half-brother's thick shaft, trying to evoke his scent and taste in his own mind – and failed to hide when Fëanáro abruptly turned towards the corner around which he was peeping. Their eyes locked. Fëanáro gripped Elemmírë's head with an abrupt movement that forced him to swallow all of his cock, and came deep in his throat, throwing his head back in utter abandon.

It was a deliberate display.

Ñolofinwë dazedly heard Elemmírë gag and the echo of it rippled through him, even as dismay froze him.

*

A servant notified to him that the High Prince required his presence, in the late morning of the following day. Fëanáro had warned him he would. Ñolofinwë went. In his mind he kept enumerating all the likely outcomes over which he had agonized during a sleepless, anxiety-fraught night. None of them was particularly appealing. He crossed the foyer, reliving his half-brother's terse dismissal, to the sitting room beyond it. He made to knock on the open door, but as he glanced inside his breath caught in his throat.

There was a blond man lounging, naked, on plump cushions inside, but it was not Elemmírë.

It was Arafinwë.

Arafinwë, flushed and sated, with the marks of sex plain on his bare skin. 

“He is beautiful, is he not?” Fëanáro soundlessly came up next to Ñolofinwë, dressed only in a pair of loose pants. “I bet you never imagined he could look so debauched. I didn't, either, to be honest.” 

Ñolofinwë slowly shifted his gaze to look into Fëanáro's eyes – brilliant and ravaging, but amused too – and though he was taller he felt incredibly small. 

Fëanáro's right hand flitted between his shoulder blades and crawled up to his nape. He stepped closer. 

“And you, well, I would never have pegged you as a voyeur.”

Ñolofinwë felt the shame at having been caught like a child poking his nose where he knows he should not renew itself. 

“You have some explaining to do, don't you?”

The younger elf nodded. He had decided a straightforward admission and apology were the best way to appease Fëanáro, who had every right to be angry at him. He had in fact expected him to be seething with rage, rather than only vaguely insulting. He tried to muster his poise, appealing to his formal, most detached manner. “I apologize for -”

“Ñolvo,” Arafinwë called from inside the room, cutting him short. “This is no time for stuffy courtesy.”

“ _Your_ brother is right, half-brother,” Fëanáro taunted, and firmly pushed him inside the room.

Arafinwë swung his legs off the cushions and stood up.

“Greetings, brother,” he said with a tinge of bashfulness to his expression that made him look less wanton and more like his usual self. He put his hands on Ñolofinwë's shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. “I confess finding out that you were peeping – and deliberately – on Curufinwë astonished me, too.”

Ñolofinwë focused on his face, trying to ignore the heat that emanated from his body. “How- Why-” 

“It's what I want," Arafinwë shrugged, and smiled disarmingly. "We're not here to talk about me, anyway.”

'But why Fëanáro', Ñolofinwë would have asked if they had been alone. 

He couldn't with Fëanáro there, Fëanáro who slunk behind Arafinwë and pulled his blond locks away from his shoulders, revealing a row of bite marks that went from the middle of his right shoulder down to his nipple.

Arafinwë blushed, but his eyes glowed with the mellowness of satisfied desire. Ñolofinwë kept on staring at him, not knowing what to say, what to do. How to deal with the fact that his younger brother had what he wanted to have (if it was Fëanáro's idea of retribution – to have him see that, too – it was a decidedly exquisite one). 

“I should...I should probably not...intrude further, and -”

“You deserve punishment,” Fëanáro bluntly stated, staring at him over Arafinwë's shoulder. “Then we might discuss your inappropriate behaviour. I might even take an apology into account.”

“Punishment?” Ñolofinwë's eyes darted from one brother to the other.

Fëanáro kissed Arafinwë's neck, sucking his milky skin into his mouth, releasing it with a smack. “Nothing too bad. In fact, we believe you will rather enjoy it.”

Ñolofinwë didn't particularly like – or trust – the hint of mischief in his half-brother's words, but Arafinwë, still smiling, took his hands and pulled him down on the cushions, forestalling his protest, and started taking his boots off.

Fëanáro knelt behind him, and yanked his pants first and his underpants then down to the middle of his thighs. 

“Get on all fours,” he commanded.

“What?”

The confusion hogtied Ñolofinwë, and allowed his brothers to manoeuvre him until he was in the desired position, the garments bunched around his thighs squeezing them together. He jerked forward when he felt Fëanáro grope his buttocks.

“ _You_ have been the naughtiest here,” Arafinwë murmured, taking his face into his hands.

Fëanáro's hands retreated, his fingertips fluttering over Ñolofinwë's skin tantalisingly in the process. Ñolofinwë almost – he barely managed to restrain himself – pushed his ass back to prolong the contact. 

Soon after, Fëanáro swung one of his hands forward again, and landed a resounding slap to the same buttock. Ñolofinwë gasped, caught unprepared by the pain and the ravenous frisson that accompanied it. Arafinwë brushed his cheeks in a way that should have been soothing, but which instead aroused Ñolofinwë in a way he would never have imagined possible. The first blow was immediately followed by another and another and more still, all in rapid succession, leaving him no time and no presence of mind to think. All that mattered was the rush of blood to his cock, the heat building up in his lower body. It was too much, too soon, too unexpected. He scrunched his face, trying to fight off the paroxysm of sensation – it wasn't properly pleasure but it had the same effect on him – but to no avail. Fëanáro landed a particularly vigorous slap to the middle of his ass, then let his thumb trail down his crack, and brush his hole. It was all it took to push him over the edge. 

His body tightened, and he came, shooting streak after streak of sperm on the cushion under him. One long spurt reached Arafinwë's lower leg, and Arafinwë scooped it up and brought it to his mouth.

The spanking didn't stop; Ñolofinwë's buttocks were both bright pink, still he moaned at every merciless stroke. His cock only momentarily softened. It was soon painfully hard again, and the continued arousal, combined with the need the teasing touch to his opening had whetted, made him lose what little control he had left. 

“Fuck me,” he panted over the smack of a slap.

Fëanáro's hand stopped in mid air. He glanced at Arafinwë, who lifted both eyebrows in a 'told you so' expression. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am, do you believe I have been...engaging in such shameful conduc t-”

“I wouldn't call it shameful, more cowardly.” 

“Let me finish,” Ñolofinwë grumbled. Fëanáro probably knew exactly where he was getting at, and had interrupted him on purpose, to further embarrass him. “It is not my habit to pry on people's intimate moments. I did it because I have a...strong interest...in you.”

“Lustful interest, from what I have gathered,” Fëanáro argued, palming his buttocks. 

Ñolofinwë had (not for the first time in his life) the urge to slap his half-brother. “So why ask if I truly want it?”

“You seem to be so...reluctant about it.”

“Don't tell me _you_ have any compunction about fucking me as you fuck my brother.”

“Your brother and I have an agreement.”

“...and I have _two_ foolish brothers,” Arafinwë sighed, and ended the bickering by throwing Fëanáro the vial of lubricant. 

Ñolofinwë shuddered in anticipation at the gesture. 

Fëanáro caught the small glass bottle and uncorked it. "Very well then.” 

Ñolofinwë followed his older brother's movements with his ears, his desire swelling with every passing second. At last, one of Fëanáro's fingers was at his opening, and smeared it with the oil before slipping in with very little effort, because Ñolofinwë did push back then, to show that he craved and welcomed the intrusion. It had been the most recurring (and the most gratifying) of his fantasies, and he was determined to enjoy its fulfilment. 

Fëanáro smirked and soon added a second and a third finger, slowly fucking him with them, curling and dragging them over his prostate. 

Arafinwë observed Ñolofinwë's face, and saw the unrestrained delight on it. “I think he is more than ready, right?”

Ñolofinwë nodded his assent. The fingers retreated. His pants and undergarments were taken off. He heard Fëanáro fumble with the vial again, then his asscheeks were pulled apart and the head of Fëanáro's slicked cock was at his opening. He tilted his ass, and the movement by which he was penetrated was a coordinated movement, as if they had done it countless times before.

What followed was a blur of heat and delicious ecstasy whirling through his body, from the touch of his half-brother's cock and hands to every pant and groan. At some point - he wouldn't have been able to tell why, but it felt terribly natural at the moment - he lowered his head and took Arafinwë into his mouth. 

“Ñolvo,” Arafinwë gasped sharply in surprise, but didn't pull away and let his brother lap and suck, until he threw his head back and spent himself in his mouth.

“How does your brother taste, half-brother?” Fëanáro asked, just as Ñolofinwë let Arafinwë's cock go and licked his lips clean. 

He looked up. Arafinwë's chest heaved above him but his head was thrown back and he couldn't see his face. Not that he could have brought himself to reply, at any rate.

“I know it well, you know,” Fëanáro hissed, and stopped thrusting. His hands slithered from Ñolofinwë's sides to his inflamed asscheeks. He dragged his nails sharply over them. 

Ñolofinwë cried out. His arms gave way, his face landing on one of Arafinwë's thighs. Fëanáro pulled out and flipped him over, leading to one more spike of pleasure-laced pain as his ass was rubbed against the heavy brocade of the cushion. The new position also allowed him to see his half-brother's face, however, and with the added stimulation of visual contact neither lasted much longer. Arafinwë, once recovered, only had to stroke Ñolofinwë's cock very lightly a couple of times to bring him to a second, shattering orgasm.

Fëanáro, in turn, buried himself in his half-brother again, but quickly reached his limit. He withdrew from Ñolofinwë's body, let go of his legs, and came all over his still clothed chest, their seed mingling on the precious fabric. Then he let out a heavy breath, and brushed his hair away from his sweaty forehead. 

Ñolofinwë groaned loudly. He carefully shifted to lie on his side and relieve the pressure on his sore ass. Fëanáro promptly lay in front of him. Ñolofinwë pushed his head away when he leant in.

“No more now.”

“Right,” Fëanáro grinned wolfishly. “It'll be entertaining enough to watch you sit through the ceremony tomorrow. All the envoys paying their respects, and the gift bearers, the music and poetry, and finally the long long dinner, and you – sitting straight and stiff, the pain a constant reminder of what we did.”

Ñolofinwë glared, but his anger was a flimsy veil on the inevitability of the ordeal his half-brother's words evoked.

“Don't give me that look. You asked for it.”

“I didn't ask to be -” 

“You _came_ from being spanked,” Fëanáro chortled, “but we could try to ease some of the ache, I guess.” He turned towards the door. “Curvo, could you fetch the salve in the bathroom?”

“Yes, father.”

“What is your son doing here?”

“He's been on guard against, you know, dastardly intruders.”

“Which reminds me,” Arafinwë began, “Ambaráto was livid when he learnt you spied on him that day in the corridor. He said you're worse than Curufinwë.”

“You know about him- and...and told him I was there?” Ñolofinwë attempted to turn his head to face his younger brother, who had lain down at his back. “I didn't mean to spy, how was I supposed to know he was going to get a handjob in the middle of a corridor?”

“From the hated uncle who has been "defiling" his dad, no less.”

Arafinwë chuckled – Aicanáro had been thoroughly embarrassed by the whole incident. “That's true, but anybody else would have either looked the other way or interrupted, I daresay.”

Ñolofinwë had no retort to that. “What now?” he asked instead.

“What indeed,” Fëanáro brushed a finger over his half-brother's lips. “There are still a couple of things you need to clear up, so you better be ready. It's often said, isn't it? 'Be careful what you wish' -”

“You might get more than you wanted,” concluded Arafinwë.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from the song "Hammering in my head" by Garbage.
> 
> The prompt for the story is [this one](http://silmarillionkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1329.html?thread=49457#cmt49457/).
> 
> The unnamed apprentice can be anybody you want (I had Rog in mind, but the problem with Rog is his name).


End file.
